


Loose the Hounds

by dogslut



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adult Content, Adultery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Animal Transformation, Bestiality, Bigotry & Prejudice, Body Horror, Cock Slut, Come Eating, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Come as Lube, Curses, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Food Issues, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Humiliation, Hunters & Hunting, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nobility, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oral Knotting, Oral Sex, Original Fiction, Pronoun Shift, Rape/Non-con Elements, Regency, Rimming, Sadism, Sexual Coercion, Slut Shaming, Spit As Lube, Spitroasting, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Transformation, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 16:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20915420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogslut/pseuds/dogslut
Summary: John Pemberton, Lord Tullakill is a cruel man who loves the hunt. An irresistible quarry gives him a taste of his own medicine and he discovers what it means to be hunted.





	Loose the Hounds

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about a terrible man meeting a terrible fate. If you did not read the tags by now please do so and don't say I didn't warn you ))

The thing John Pemberton, Lord Tullakill loves most about his new lordship on the Emerald Isle is the hunting. The land he inherited from his father (God bless the rotten bastard’s black soul) is vast and largely untamed and so teeming with wildlife ripe for the slaughter. And of all the creatures whose lives he rightfully owns on all those wild acres there’s none he enjoys chasing down and killing so much as the fox.

A stag is great sport and great roast. Pheasants are plentiful enough that he has them in pie as often as mutton. But a fox--unfit to eat, a scoundrel to livestock, and all around worthless alive--drives his hounds into a frothing frenzy such that by the time he catches up to the dogs on horseback there’s sometimes only scraps left of the animal. On those days he contents himself with the fox’s dying screams as his hounds savagely rip it limb from limb. It’s a waste of a nice pelt but the sound is satisfying enough to be nearly arousing.

His horse is fine stock but sometimes requires full-force whipping to keep going as fast as he wants it to. The dogs mostly mind their place but sometimes it takes a horsewhip or a swift boot to the ribs or face to remind them whose will they must bend to. Next to the king he’s the highest authority in the land and even mindless beasts need to remember that.

One night he’s woken from a fitful sleep by a commotion in the stately kennel where he houses fifteen couples of foxhounds. Lord Tullakill tosses himself out of bed and stamps over to glare at the window--the barking has stopped but there’s a light in the kennel! He’ll teach whoever’s skulking about a good lesson! He pulls on a coat over his dressing gown, gathers up a rifle and lamp and makes his way out there.

He can’t believe his eyes when he finds out what caused the barking. One of his scullerymaids, Clara he thinks, a young woman of 19, is in a lodging room amid silently watchful dogs. She is sprawled out on the straw with her legs wide and dress pulled up...and one of his hunting hounds lapping away at her cunt! She notices him too late and draws in a big breath to scream but he puts a finger to his lips to quiet her.

“My my, I knew you Irish were a savage lot but I didn’t imagine you were _ this _ beastly,” he says smugly. He likes the way she blushes in shame. “It would behove you to stay quiet. You know what would happen if word of this got out.” Clara pushes her skirt over her privates and bursts out crying. He shooshes her, walking into the pen to box her in. “This can be our secret if you only stay quiet...and turn over. There’s a good girl, on your hands and knees.”

He pulls her skirts up to expose her bare behind and public curls all wet with dog slobber. When he runs his fingers up and down her slit she cries harder. “Please my lord, please I’m a virgin, I swear, please don’t, no one will ever marry me if you...if you…”

The dog, this is Tanner, swoops in to lick where his fingers meet her wet pussy lips. “Tut tut. It’s shameful isn’t it to still be unmarried at your age? Maybe you like dogs better than men.”

“No I swear it was just...he’s never! It was only licking I swear…please...”

“Remember what I said, girl. Do as I say, keep your voice down for God’s sake and no one has to know. And don’t worry, I know something that will suit for all three of us.”

“My lord?”

Lord Tullakill reaches around the brown and white chest of his hound to find Tanner’s fat cocksheath and jacks it a few times. The dog instantly responds by humping the air and it doesn’t take much coaxing to get it to mount Clara’s back. She squeals and begs no, no, not like this, but he ignores her and guides the dog’s pointed red penis...not to her cunt but to her arsehole! Tanner slams it in and Clara claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. What a wonderful sound! The hound humps her as fast as it can run, back legs stamping and front legs wrapped tight around her little waist. He knows the knot is tying her because she squeals again in pain and sobs harder. Perfect. He helps Tanner turn and holds its collar so it can breed his naughty servant full of cum. Tanner has been a good stud in the past so Lord Tullakill knows the tie will last quite some minutes.

“There, isn’t this better!” he tells her quietly. “Your future husband, no doubt destined to be cuckolded by many dogs, will be never the wiser, and Tanner here gets to breed a bitch without making puppies.” He rubs a finger over her abused pucker to watch it flinch...then keeps wandering lower to tickle her cunt and clit. “You like this, don’t you girl.”

“It hurts” she cries. Lord Tullakill is annoyed that she forgot propriety. Tsk tsk, what a way to talk to your superior.

“But your cunt is so wet. Don’t lie to me, you love this big red dog prick in your arse. Admit it.” She shakes her head and that’s not acceptable. He slaps her ass and goes back to fiddling with her clit and slit. “I’m going to watch you cum on his knot and then we’ll see the truth. Naughty little dogfucker. Cum for him. Cum for Tanner, you dirty Irish slut. That’s it. That’s it.”

And she does cum. Her pale body shudders and he can feel her pussy drench his fingers even without anything inside it. She’s quieter after that...just soft moans and sniffling. “Good girl. See, that wasn’t so bad. I think you’ll grow to like it.”

After a few minutes the dog pulls its cock out of her arse and spins to lick up the seed & blood leaking from her hole. What a nice view. And Lord Tullakill thinks to himself, there’s no use in letting a prepared hole go to waste. Clara is trying to stand but he nudges Tanner out of the way, forces her down with a hand on her waist, and pulls his hard cock out from under his dressing gown. She starts pleading again but it falls on deaf ears. He forces his prick into her arse and rapes her at his leisure, drawing out his pleasure and her shame. “Your arse...it’s hotter and wetter than any cunt I’ve ever fucked! If only my wife would let me bugger her like this...it feels so good!”

He fucks her nice and hard but her crying annoys him eventually so he reaches down to play with her clit again until she cums on his cock too. “There’s a good girl. I know you’re going to want this again, aren’t you? Don’t worry, any time the need rises in you, just come light a lamp here and I’ll see to it you get all the dog seed your arse can carry! Now what do you say?”

“Thank you my lord” Clara sobs. There, that wasn’t so hard, he thinks. It’s good to get proper respect again. He goes back to pounding her ass into the straw until he cums hard, adding his mess to Tanner’s copious fluids.

He holds her still to make her let the dog lick her clean. “Now go to bed, you have work to do come sunrise. Remember...not a word to anyone. They’ll hang you and the hound both if anyone finds out it’s had you, and Tanner there is worth 30 pounds!”

Lord Tullakill collects his lamp & gun and stops by the water trough to clean his cock off. Just beyond the court on his way back to the manor something catches his eye...a fox! Not just any fox but a white one, gleaming white! He salivates at the thought of taking such a trophy. He would be envied all the way to Scotland if he bagged a white fox. He lifts his rifle but no sooner does he try to sight it than it’s gone! Cursing his horse’s night blindness he stamps back home.

His return to bed makes his wife stir. “What has you out of bed at this ungodly hour?” she grumbles.

“A fox roused the hounds” he lies. “I shall hunt the villain down come tomorrow.”

“Very good dear,” Lady Tullakill says sleepily. He climbs into bed with her. She doesn’t react to his hand on her breast or bottom. The lack of reaction is boring so he settles in to sleep.

...

On the morrow after lunch, but not too soon after, he has his horse and hounds readied for a hunt. Thirty-odd dogs swarm around him into the countryside. He takes a few braces of pheasant and hare but they’re not what he’s after. It’s almost time to return when the pack picks up a scent. Barking and milling like they’ve caught madness they race off and Lord Tullakill whips his horse harder and harder to make the beast keep up. The hounds lead him deeper and deeper into the wooded hills, into the dark forest where he has to duck branches to keep his seat. At last, on a turn, he spots their prey: the white fox! He’s so beside himself he almost drops his hunting horn in his haste to blow it. His horse flags but he doesn’t care about the froth on its mouth. It must obey him. He must have that fox. He’ll have it stuffed and placed in the great hall posed to look like it’s pouncing on a pheasant. No, a brace of pheasants. No, half a dozen! It will be a spectacle! He burns with the need to kill this fox! He needs to hear its final scream as his hounds catch it and he shoots it through its emotionless heart!

The longer the fox eludes his pack the angrier he gets at it. He’ll let his dogs lame it and then strangle it in his own hands. That way the pelt won’t be blemished with bullet holes and he’ll get to feel the snap of its neck. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. A tree branch slaps him in the face. Damn you fox, he thinks, you’ll never get the better of me! I am lord of this land and you are my property!

The hounds flush the fox into a clearing small enough that the surrounding ash trees still shade out the sky. They’re chasing it round the lone hawthorn in the center of the clearing when Lord Tullakill arrives to give them the order to lame their prey. The moment a hound’s tooth touches the fox’s white fur a blinding light bursts from it, bright enough to rival sunrise and stun the entire hunting party! Lord Tullakill’s horse rears up screaming and throws him clean off the saddle. He lands with a mighty thump!

Groaning, he staggers to his feet. That damned horse has spooked completely--he can barely see it galloping away through the trees the way they came. He yells at it, damn beast! But then…

“John Richard Pemberton,” a voice behind him calls. The voice sounds like a storm’s wind and righteous anger. He whips around to see...something that has him rubbing both eyes with his fists because surely they deceive him. There’s a person there beside the hawthorn with _ his hounds _ cowering at their feet. It’s...it’s too beautiful to be a man, too angular to be a woman, too... _ glowy _ to be _ human _. He shakes his head. That’s a daft idea.

He suddenly remembers overhearing his Irish servants talking in hushed, reverent, warning tones about the Fair Folk. He’d had a good laugh about it because superstitions like that were what proved they were stupider and less civilized than him and his own countrymen. But right at this moment there is a part of him indulging that very superstition as if it might be fact.

John’s feet are rooted to the spot. He wants to demand to know who this rascal is to play tricks on him and address him in such a shockingly familiar manner. But his mouth doesn’t seem to want to shape words.

“John. Richard. Pemberton. Ye cruel and black-hearted villain in fine gold thread,” the glowing person accuses him. It almost hurts to look at them. Doing so fills him with peculiar dread more powerful than his offense at being spoken to this way. “Dog-whipper, horse-beater, scourge of maids and foe of good men. Nothing sacred find ye, even as ye find what is sacred! Nightly have I heard the cries of anguish under your wicked hands, prayers of beasts killed slowly and innocents dealt with lowly! Have ye no remorse for the suffering ye craft?”

The person gestures to his dogs, some of whom leap up to wag their tails and lick the white fingers of the stranger’s shining hands. Anger boils up in his throat and pushes out the words that fear had trapped inside. “Remorse? Suffering?? Are you mad? They do not suffer, they only react according to instinct, like machines wrapped in fur! A dog has neither sensibilities to offend nor a soul to besmirch...no emotions or anguish and certainly no _ prayers _!”

The light intensifies and so does the person’s voice. It echoes on itself as if two people were speaking at once. He staggers a step back when they speak next. “IS THAT SO? Truly ye are more beast than the creatures ye abuse, John Richard Pemberton, and ye shall learn that a beast may suffer as a beast may feel! As ye covet, be coveted--this I will and vow!”

A wave of white-hot heat envelops him as if he was standing at a forge. He doubles over from the intensity of it and in that moment his hounds rise as one and lurch at him. There are too many to fend off and he’s too nauseous to beat them back. Their fangs rip at his clothing, tearing his hunting finery to scraps until he’s as bare as the day he was born...they even rip the boots off his feet! As terrified as he is that they’ll bite him to ribbons next John is not prepared for what happens next. One of the hounds leaps onto his back from behind, clasps its forelegs around his middle and thrusts at him as if he was a bitch! He doesn’t even have a chance to fully grasp the awfulness of what’s happening before something wet and red-hot skewers his arsehole and he howls in pain. The beast doesn’t hesitate to fuck him full of its cock and John thrashes but the dog holds the back of his neck in its teeth. Tears fill his eyes as something huge batters its way into his hole like a mallet and suddenly it’s even bigger, bigger, bigger until it won’t come back out. He’s been knotted! The dog slides off and turns, pulling at their tie and that hurts even worse. He tries to pull forward but it’s so painful his vision goes blurry so he crab-walks back towards the dog, pushing its prick deeper inside himself. John can feel the hound’s cock throbbing and pulsing as it breeds him...one moment the master, the next a common bitch in heat.

The rest of the pack is not content to wait their turn. They paw and hump at him, trying to find a hole of their own to fuck. Their claws slice his skin and their pricks spray fluid all over him. More than one latches its forepaws around his neck and tries to fuck his face. Several times a hot, salty dog cock pops into his screaming mouth and fills it with cum before he’s able to push the animal away. No sooner does the first foxhound pull its dick out of him (it feels like it’s ripping him open) than another jumps his back and repeats the whole horrible process.

The very worst thing is that no matter how many times John screams no and no matter how bad it hurts to have his ass raped, his cock responds to the greedy dog tongues lapping at it and stiffens up. He tries to push them away but they’re everywhere. Claws and dicks and tongues. Another succeeds in raping his mouth and he gags on the oily spray of its jizz going down his throat. The third dog to fuck his arse stays on his back so the two have him boxed in--helpless & unbalanced thus unable to stop the rest from licking him to the worst orgasm he’s ever had.

The horror continues. One tie after another, one mouthful of cock and cum after the next, and yet more terrible orgasms despite how little time has passed. For a moment he finds himself freed and tries to crawl away with multiple hounds licking his ruined arse like a stewpot. That’s when he looks down at his aching hands and finds out things have gotten even worse. Something is wrong with his hands. His fingers look shorter and nails longer. The hair there has changed...it’s denser, coarser & white! His legs feel strange, his mouth and back ache and he can’t draw a breath to scream about it before another hound mounts him. This time the pain in his arse is less stabbing & fire and more of a burning ache but he can feel the knot pushing on something that almost feels good. The dog tries to walk away so he follows it, whimpering, even though it means keeping its penis inside himself longer. Pushing out the knot is still too much to bear. So he pushes it in instead. But the dog pulls it out anyway and he cums again even as he’s screaming in pain. He continues screaming as his arms & legs twist. It feels like something is pushing its way out of his tailbone. No, it _ is _ his tailbone...no...it’s a _ tail _!

By this point his voice has given out and he’s shocked stiff. This can’t be happening. This is all a bad dream. He shouldn’t have eaten that rarebit before dinner. “Wake up, John, wake up” he whines to himself but now his teeth are aching too. The next dog takes him. He doesn’t wake up. No matter how he tries to fight it off he cums again, no more than a dribble, and his body is molten. When another dog takes his mouth he reaches up to push its humping thighs away but stops aghast: where he should have hands are paws instead! He yelps around the cock which only allows it to drive deeper into his throat and the knot inflates in his mouth...no, his muzzle!

He’s become a hound. A hound, and _ his _ hounds are fucking him in a great rutting frenzy as if he was a bitch in heat even though he can feel his cock between his legs. But even that doesn’t feel right. He realizes it’s a foxhound cock now, red and pointed and uncomfortably knotting his new sheath. Dazed, he stands on his new paws and lets himself be fucked. The ache has started to feel good and the cum has started to _ taste _ good and that’s the most terrible thing of all.

As soon as this pair has finished he dashes off. Or he tries to as he’s never run on all fours before so his arms...his front legs, oh God, don’t follow as they should. A big male grabs his nape in its teeth and when he screams it’s a dog’s yelp. In a panic he makes another run for it and the pack, baying, follows.

He doesn’t realize at first that night has fallen because the forest still seems bright. But all the greens of the woods are faded now to his new eyes just as his new nose has so much information from _ smells _ coming in that it hurts his head. He can smell all their cum, slobber and fur. He can smell... _ horse _! John tries to turn but trips over his horrible paws and goes tumbling into a tree. The pack catches him and when they fuck him his cries come out as howls.

But after a few more ties he gets another change to make a break for it. He follows the horse smell as fast as he can manage. The trees grow thinner but he’s also growing tired. He tries to keep pushing. A dog can run for miles. He feels foam on his flews. No, he must keep running!

His moment of weakness catches up to him in the end when the pack does. They bite his ankles and bowl into him from the side so he goes tumbling and then they’re on him again. He knots his own sheath again when they knot his ass. Watery cum sprays onto his chest and forelegs. The night air is cold on the pointy head of his prick. The tie still hurts but less now and he’s learned how to move with a stud to keep from pulling loose before the knot deflates, as humiliating as that is. He takes another knot to the maw and horrifies himself by lapping at it as it fills his mouth. At least getting bred gives him a moment of rest.

Finally it occurs to him...if he’s a hound, he has fangs too! As soon as he’s unknotted and a third dog puts its chin on his back he drops his hindquarters, spins and tries to bite! Startled, the dog...the _ other _ dog backs off. He fends off a few more but God, there are so many! Too many to fight off like that so John gathers what little energy he has left and takes off again.

He smells...smoke. Smoke means people! Forgetting the now-faint smell of horse he follows that instead. Exhaustion makes him slow down to a trot and the pack seems content to follow at the same pace. They’ve been hounds all their lives and must be sure of their ability to wear him out again. There are still some that haven’t gotten a chance to rape him. They must be intent on making their own absurd attempt to impregnate him too.

Thin woods give way to rolling farmland. In the distance he spies the bright yellow (he can still see yellow!) lights of a cottage so he heads that way. One paw after another John drags himself towards...maybe not true civilization, at least someone who might be able to help. He isn’t sure if he’s more angry or relieved that he’s finally figured out how to make his new legs work in the way they’re shaped to move.

Alas! He’s a stone’s throw (if he had hands to throw anymore) from the cottage when some fiesty hound gets his blood up and overtakes him. As tired as he is all John can do is stand there and make odious dog cries as his poor arse is penetrated by the frantic jabs of yet another cock. That sets much of the pack off barking even though the idiots don’t know what they’re barking at. But it does have the fortuitous side effect of summoning the cottage resident. The man that comes out with a lit lamp and a raised voice is no one John’s ever seen before, not that he has reason to do more than ride through these dingy little villages in his carriage on the way to somewhere better, smells like he’s not quite middle age, alone save for one male dog (damn it all), and had mutton and bread for dinner. How he knows this is a mystery. It’s a lot to take in. But so are 24 dog cocks and he’s done all that tonight.

The man stops at the edge of the little stone fence walling off his pitiful back garden to scratch his head at the swarm of foxhounds before him. Most of all the locked up pair. He says something exasperated but...it’s in Gaelic so it might as well have been underwater with a mouthful of marbles. John only makes it the first step towards him before the knot in his arse reminds him to stay where he is. He tries to introduce himself but it just comes out as grumbles and barks. Damn! _ He _ might as well be speaking Gaelic!

“Aye, easy lass, that’s quite a gaggle of suitors you’ve dragged all through the countryside with ye after your tail isn’t it” the man says gently. But then the light must catch John’s straining cock because the man jumps back with a curse...then guffaws. “God in Heaven who’s ever seen a thing like that! Och that must smart your poor wee arse!”

You have no idea, John tries to tell him, now get them off me at once! Grumble grumble bark bark. As the ultimate insult to injury the man pats his head and scratches behind his ears while peeping this way and that at the dogs’ situation. The rest of the pack snuffles and barks at him but he pays them little mind.

John’s thigh fur feels stiff with all the cum that’s been sprayed & dripped onto it and it doesn’t help matters that the man comments on this. “They’ve been busy with ye haven’t they! Mother of God, what a strange thing. I reckon you lot belong to that fancy Lord Tullakill, fine hounds you are!” Yes! I am he! You must return me to the manor post haste! Bark bark bark! He feels patronized when he gets another head pat for his trouble. “Daft English fob losing his whole pack of dogs to a devil’s dalliance.” Mind your tongue! The sound of his own growl surprises him. The man laughs. Patronizing him again! Why must he continue to suffer such unspeakable indignities?? “Aye fine fine, lad, I’ll not speak ill of your master in front of ye. At any case who am I to begrudge a lad his pleasures. Easy does it. He’ll be through with ye soon. Though it might be you don’t _ really _ mind so much.” The farmer winks at him and reaches down to squeeze John’s sheath, letting his engorged cock slip out further. His hips jerk as if they have a mind of their own. It feels very good but unfortunately it tugs on the other dog’s knot.

The man stands by petting dogs until the two separate at which point he whistles and shepherds the whole barking pack into a dilapidated barn with truly unusual doors--the Dutch design. “I’ll send word to the manor in the morning so they can collect you lot. Ye’ll be safe and warm in here for the night. Just sit tight, there’s not much food to go round for such a great many of ye but there’s water and scraps to be had.”

John whines as they’re closed in. Now he has nowhere to go when the few hounds that haven’t yet raped him and a few who’ve had him before lock him down. There’s dog cum running down his balls and thighs. He’s too tired to do more than growl and they make it clear they’re not intimidated by him. He should have whipped them more when he had hands to do it. Maybe then they’d respect him as a lord among hounds instead of treating him like breeding stock. At least it’s not so painful now that he’s getting used to it. The idea of getting used to being trapped in a dog’s body and being raped by his own hounds is mortally offensive but it’s true. He simply hasn’t the strength left to fight this nightmare for now.

He tells himself things will be different in the morning. After a rest and some water he’ll fight them all off in a frenzy of fangs and dignity. The farmer will contact the manor and they’ll take him back in his own carriage and he’ll...he’ll...he shall see his personal surgeon and make him understand his absurd predicament, and his surgeon will summon the bishop and together they’ll undo this black magic. John sighs a doggy sigh and holds still as the next doggy dick stabs into and knots his doggy bottom.

The farmer returns presently with two pails of water which he empties into a trough. Suddenly John recognizes how thirsty he is and lunges for it--this time he’s the one dragging the stud around by the tie! Trying to drink is just as humiliating as everything else has been since that infernal fox-person ruined his life. He soon discovers a foxhound cannot effectively suck up water as a man would but also that he has little instinct for how to drink in the sloppy, beastly way that dogs do. He ends up biting mouthfuls to drink out of sheer frustration, trying to ignore the fact that the latest cock has slipped free and he’s being licked out and the rough tongue on his tender asshole feels rather pleasant...and intense. At least finally he has something different than the taste of cum in his mouth.

Next the farmer returns with a lamp and a basket of food. FOOD! Bread and mutton! Mutton and bread! Blessedly the hounds are just as hungry so finally his apparently irresistible arse is forgotten. Not so is John’s sense of propriety. His mouth fills with drool at the smells but...it’s _ leftovers _ . A _ peasant’s _ leftovers. An _ Irish _ peasant’s leftovers. He puts his nose in the air, telling himself it’s an expression of disdain and not a way to get his nose closer to the sweet smell of marrow still in the bone, merciful God he’s so hungry, and the hounds are eating it all and damn it to Hell he has to get in there lest he go hungry. Fortune smiles on him in the tiniest of ways because the farmer tells him that he’s held some back for “the lucky laddie.” He turns his head from it in one final bid to preserve his dignity regarding food, but the moment the man lilts that he’ll just toss it to the others that goes out the barn window and he gobbles his portion up.

John is so busy wolfing down his pathetic meal he barely notices the farmer coming around behind him until there are two spit-slicked fingers sliding into his arsehole. He lets out high pitched yelps: not you too! Stop! Enough! But the farmer just shooshes and pets him and holds him by a hock while slowly, carefully fingerfucking his ass. “It’s a nice loose cunt they’ve given ye. Nice and wet” the man coos. John whimpers because he doesn’t want this but he’s still so tired his limbs are shaking. “Don’t worry lad, after that lot’s had ye this won’t hurt a bit. That’s a good boy, good boy, it’ll be nice. Nice wet little hole. So nice.” The farmer scissors his fingers a bit, gives him three for a few minutes and he’s right, it doesn’t really hurt, but he keeps whining because this isn’t right. Dogs are stupid, lusty creatures that will happily fuck anything that holds still long enough but a man ought to know better. Irregardless the farmer unbuttons his trousers, spits on his hand to slick himself down and feeds his thick cock into John’s well-used foxhole.

The thing about a dog’s prick is once the enormous-feeling knot has locked itself inside the part behind it is narrow, so all this time these hounds have been tying John’s arse it hasn’t been held open very far, even if it feels very large. But a man’s prick is the same girth all the way down, so when the farmer pushes his balls deep into John’s cum-slicked pucker he’s pushing the erstwhile lord’s hole wide the whole time. It’s a lucky thing that knots popping in and out have loosened him up or the stretch might be just as bad as the first half dozen times he was raped. As it is now the thick human cock slowly pumping in and out nonstop keeps his anus and that special spot inside his gut highly stimulated. John’s tongue lolls out of his drooly mouth. The farmer reaches around for his sheath, squeezes nicely and pulls it back so his knot pops free--finally!--and then oh! Oh! Bliss! He squeezes John’s knot and just behind it and lets him hump his hand, finally able to get some friction against his own prick and he cums all over himself...and even after his orgasm subsides his knot is still a firm handful squirting seed!

The farmer gives him heavenly squeezes to the knot & stem and takes his time about fucking John’s ass. It’s very different from being taken by the hounds who hump for a minute or less and then merely stand still with their cocks shooting and throbbing inside him. His tail (a brainless idiot betraying him) wags on its own. The farmer’s thrusts get deeper, harder...faster. The man’s cock is much drier than the hounds’ but he takes the time to spit on it again and there’s enough dog sperm swimming inside John that the whole affair remains greased. His own cock is still shooting many minutes later when the man positively pounds into his arse and fills him with a much thicker load of seed than he’s ever had within him. Even after pulling out the farmer keeps hold of John’s prick until the squirting stops, his knot deflates and it can slip back into its nice warm protective sheath. 

He gets more head pats for enduring this plus a few on his poor sore rump. “What a good lad you are,” the farmer pants. “A strange one but good. I can see why ye’ve so many suitors. Never in all my days have I seen a male dog that likes a hard cock up the arse but saints be praised it was my home ye found tonight. You have fun with your friends. I’ll be back round in the morning.” John whines, tail drooping, as the farmer leaves the barn...leaving him in darkness with his exhaustion and the savage sexual hungers of the pack.

…

By the time dawn peeks in through the shoddy wooden walls of the barn John has only caught a couple of hours’ sleep. He’s cursed himself, the fox-person and God Himself that he was fool enough to take fifteen couples of males on the hunt with him the day before, because every single one of them has now used his arse, mouth, or both at least once. He’s taken so much dog cock in such short order that he’s moved through shock and outrage into a state of numb acceptance about his situation. At this point John isn’t certain that he can classify what they’re doing to him as rape because he stands still for them and allows it to happen. He can’t even manage more than muted horror at the prospect of voiding his cum-drenched bowels without the benefit of a washcloth, much less the continued violation of his holes.

The farmer comes by midmorning with more food in the form of a freshly slaughtered sheep. John holds out for as long as he can but by the time his stomach is angry enough to force him to eat raw mutton there’s not much left. The farmer fucks him again just like the night before, slow then fast, holding his knot the whole time...then leaves the lot of them to their own business. A dog’s life, from what he sees for much of that day, is pretty boring. They tussle and play, they sleep alot, piss on posts and occasionally mount him. Unlike the unbridled sex frenzy of the previous night it’s a slow steady series of ties, usually one at a time, and they don’t tie him as long as last time. His prick is just as reactive as ever about it. He has learned how to move his tail out of the way so it isn’t crushed until another dog’s weight and how to bear down on a growing knot so it inflates inside his arse instead of in the hole itself, which hurts spectacularly. He _ hates _ that he’s learning these things. He _ hates _ that he’s enjoying these things.

It’s late in the day and he’s hungry enough to gnaw bones (tasty, tasty bones) when he hears hooves and wheels in the distance. He and the hounds are on their feet in an instant. He yells for help but to everyone else he’s just one dog among many barking his fool head off. There are voices drawing close and...he knows that voice! His berner! Gregory Chambers, that canny, whip-happy, loyal old card! He’ll recognize Lord Tullakill for certain! John calls out to him, cursing the fact that it comes out as baying. In his eagerness to see him John finds himself springing up in the air like a spaniel. To Hell with it! He is delivered!

“I beg ye forgive the state of the old barn,” the farmer is saying as the top halves of the peculiar barn doors swing open. The pack swarms up to them. Gregory Chambers means food (their one meal, every evening) and if they’re half as starved as he is it’s little wonder they’re happy to see him. “They’ve had a good hearty meal this morning and slept it off. Handsome hounds, sir, I knew the moment I set eyes on them they belonged to our lordship.”

Naturally. No one in the county but he holds the legal right to hunt with hounds, much less the wealth to own such well-blooded beasts. John’s chest puffs with pride for a moment before he forgets himself and springs up again to yell-bark at his servant. Chambers is running count. “His lordship rod with fifteen couples. I count fifteen couples and one.” Chambers looks straight at John and his blood runs cold. There isn’t an inkling of recognition there. Only confusion and...and _ disdain _. Never in his 37 years on this Earth has anyone dared look on him with disdain. He doesn’t know what to think or do. His tail stops wagging and a growl rolls unbidden up his throat.

The farmer peers in at him. “Of course I’m no expert in fine hounds sir but plain as day that one seems to my common eyes the same blood as the rest of them.”

Chambers shakes his head and frowns. “My good man I know every hound in Lord Tullakill’s kennels as surely as I know my own wife, and _ that one _ is not one of his.”

John feels cold. He keens high in the back of his throat and barks madly. Of course not, simpleton, I AM Lord Tullakill! I am he! You_ must _ know me! Take me back to the manor at once! But Chambers understands none of this, only yapping. “You see there? Every last hound in Lord Tullakill’s possession bears a tooled leather collar, yet that throat lies bare. I tell you, that isn’t his hound. No doubt lost from some hunting party from another county.”

The farmer gets a shrewd look on his face. “Sure it wouldn’t do to leave a hound of uncertain blood among a nobleman’s pack. I could ease your burden there, sir, look after him until his rightful owner’s found. He’ll have songbirds to chase out of the fields to keep him busy and my humble sheepdog to keep him company.” John’s tail tucks between his legs. No this can’t happen. Chambers you imbecile don’t leave me here with a dogfucker! Bark bark bark bork bark! “And if you’d only vouch for me sir in the unlikely event some foolish body got it into his foolish head that Connor Byrne would insult his lordship by…” (He mutters the word as if it’s a filthy one, which it rightly is:) “_ poaching _, least of all with a lordship’s very hound, I’d ask nothing else in return. I mention it merely, sir, on account of what a foolish body might think seeing a blooded hound in an humble man’s field. But rest assured sir he’ll be safe and sound in my care, swear on me life.”

John watches his berner think it over and then nod and offer a handshake to the farmer. “You are right, my good man, we must consider the scandal if it sired a litter by a pedigreed bitch.”

The farmer, Byrne, grins like a fox. “I assure you sir he’ll do no siring around here.” John finds himself crouching lower. Chambers leaves and returns with a great mass of strong rope leads. He affixes one to each collar, and as he has no collar, he receives no lead. When he tries to rush out through the pack the berner deftly seizes him by the loose skin of his nape! Without thinking he whips round with teeth flashing and the next thing he knows he’s hit the ground hard with a thundering pain in his head. He was struck! Chambers--his own servant--struck him! If not for this black magic curse no man would dare!! But before he can mount an attack he finds that Chambers also brought his horsewhip, and finds just how it feels when a foxhound receives the lash. Unaccustomed to pain, he screams and scrambles away into the dark of the barn whereupon the doors are closed on him once more.

“Best watch yourself round that one my fellow,” he hears Chambers say over the barking of the hounds. _ His _ hounds. (His rapists.) “A high spirit dog requires a firm hand, and don’t - spare - the lash.”

Byrne smiles thinly. “Of course sir. Discipline above all sir. Every beast and bird beneath the sun must know his rightful place.”

“And see that it does. The lordship will hear of your service on his return, good man. Hup! Hup!” And away goes his hope of deliverance. John shivers in the shadows. It feels like tears should well up in his eyes, but he cannot cry anymore, so instead he howls.

When the sounds of his beautiful carriage and expensive hounds are long since gone the barn door opens again. John looks up listlessly from where he’s curled up in old straw. Byrne the farmer walks in holding a braid of rope. A massive shaggy shepherd dog trails lazily behind him...but its ears and nose prick up when it catches John’s scent. The sheepdog bounds forward until a sharp order from its master stops it in its tracks, looking back and forth between man and former man. Its penis is poking out of its sheath already. It’s much larger than the foxhounds’ were.

“I know you miss your suitors, strange boy” Byrne tells him gently. The man kneels down to pet his head and ears and it feels good, which makes John grumpy because he doesn’t want to take pleasure in being treated like a hound. As Byrne speaks he ties the length of rope around John’s neck loose enough that it doesn’t pinch. It’s the lowliest of collars. “No need to worry your handsome head about it. Liam and I will see to your quaint needs and no one the wiser. You might even get a visit now and again from a handsome setter down the way, lucky boy. Strange, good boy, don’t be sad. Aisdeach, I’ll call ye. Hush now lad, come Aisdeach, come meet Liam. A right good friend he’ll be to ye.”

With a firm but gentle pull on his new collar Byrne guides him up and over to the eagerly waiting sheepdog. Liam wags furiously and sniffs him all over, licking dried cum from his hindquarters. He lays his massive chin on John’s withers and John shies away. Liam nips him and darts back but John yelps in surprise and cowers, hopeless and afraid. The bigger dog lowers himself and creeps forward with his tail swinging wildly; he licks John’s face and neck, sniffs him again and then tries putting his chin on John’s shoulders. A second time John ducks him and Liam gives chase...not lurching after him like a rabbit but bounding as if it’s a game. He feels himself relax. The big dog doesn’t want to hurt him. But he can see how big that proud cock is and it’s probably going to hurt.

They dance like this for some minutes until Liam starts to wear John down. They jaw at each other’s ankles without biting. This...this is play. This is a dog’s sport, but with sex on the mind. Finally it comes that Liam stands alongside John and puts his chin on the former lord’s shoulder, and John stands still for him. Liam is _ heavy _ when he climbs up onto John’s back and he whimpers, head lowered. Byrne pets his head and murmurs Gaelic nonsense to him. Liam starts humping and soon his great pointed cock-tip finds the loosened pucker of John’s arse and slides all the way inside, deep deep inside, in one great push. But where the foxhounds were like mad things when they fucked him the sheepdog is unhurried, rolling his powerful hips to push his knot inside a few times and then deep, deep, deeper where it grows to unholy proportions. John cries out and Byrne steadies him. Liam remains on top of him for a very long time while Byrne jacks his cock to hardness and holds his knot to help him cum. He’s being broken like a colt to the saddle, he knows. He also knows he’s going to take Byrne’s cock next when Liam is through seeding his guts, and he’s not going to fight it. He is a male bitch now, like it or not.

While Liam pumps his arse full of cum he thinks about running free through the fields and woods hunting with his dark-loving eyes and his gnostic nose. He thinks about catching hares and pheasant between his teeth and crunching the life from them to drink their sweet blood and eat their tender flesh. He thinks about watching a flock tied to Liam’s mammoth knot, and coming back to the cottage to be fed and sweetly fucked by the farmer and the sheepdog. No more paperwork or distant wife or squabbling lords, no awful shrieking children or disciplining scullerymaids. He thinks about finding out if Liam will take _ his _ cock so he can sometimes be more than a bitch. Was he truly cursed after all? These two are more attentive lovers than any woman he’s been inside.

Liam is heavy though and he cums for a very very long time. He tests the tie a few times but stops when Aisdeach whines. Only when his knot is fully softened does he pull out and licks his mess from Aisdeach’s arse. Then Byrne rolls him onto his back and slides his thick cock into his soft, wet hole and it feels good, it makes him knot up again. “Sweet Aisdeach, my good strange boy. You’ll stay with us here, won’t you.”

Aisdeach lets his head flop back onto the straw while the farmer stuffs him well. Out of the corner of his eye he spies a flash of something beyond the barn doors. It’s a fox, he thinks, with laughter in its savage golden eyes, but he blinks and then it’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry I'm still working on the next part of the Bucky story! I was inspired and needed to write this. I took out so many commas. Maybe I took out too many. Tell me what you think!


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